


Substitute

by mickeym



Category: Popslash
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Semipublic Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-02
Updated: 2003-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes love isn't enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

You come more to watch the people, than to actually dance or drink. Clubbing isn't your style; fading into the background and observing is really more your MO. And you see so many things most people probably miss, when they're swaying and thrusting and undulating to the beat shaking the building from ceiling to floor.

The first thing to catch your eye is the tall, lithe man moving around the dance floor like it's his alone. He's gorgeous; enough to make a small shiver of jealousy curl through you. He moves like he's unaware of it, though, arms over his head, hips gyrating liquidly, head tossed back. You wonder if he's flushed with it; wish you could see better in the hazy, dim, flickering light. You wish you could see his eyes, and wonder what color they are. Something pretty, probably; even his hair is pretty, longish and deep brown with lighter highlights, curling around his neck, clinging where he's sweaty.

He's looking at someone, though he's obviously trying for the illusion of happy, laughing, dancing man, and you follow his gaze around slowly until it comes to rest on a smaller man sitting not too far from you, sipping his own drink. He's dark all over, dressed completely in black, his hair and eyes both absorbing the color all around him, pulling it into him until it disappears as if he's a living, breathing black hole. He watches the dancing man with an intensity that sucks your breath out of you; if anyone ever watched _you_ like that, you'd likely spontaneously combust.

Messages seem to flicker back and forth between them and you wish again that you could see better, could read their eyes and maybe those messages. Dancing man disappears at one point, turns up again with a bosomy brunette attached to him, her hips moving seductively, pressing back against him. Dark man closes his eyes and shakes his head once, quickly, a sharp, abortive gesture. When you look back at dancing man, the girl is gone and he's moving away again.

He's closer the next time he appears; close enough to touch, almost, standing just in front of your small table. You can see his eyes now, and you were right; they're gorgeous. A shade of blue you can't name, but it flickers, changes, fades from light to dark and back again, like an ocean tide. They're also glittering with sadness, with a sharp prickle you can almost feel, in spite of the smile curving his mouth. There's heat there, too, warming the blue, until you wonder how you thought dark man's eyes seemed intense. Nothing could top this, and when he looks at you, eyes moving up and down slowly, you feel liquid fire trickle through you.

He doesn't even say anything to you, just looks at you, watches you puddling onto the floor. The smile on his mouth changes, turns predatory rather than fake, and the heat in his eyes changes to something else, little flames glowing brightly. When he holds his hand out and raises an eyebrow you look over to where dark man was sitting. You're not surprised he's disappeared.

~~~~~~

A huge black man follows the two of you out of the club and opens the door of the limo waiting at the curb. This is surreal; you've not even spoken to the guy; you don't know his name, he doesn't know yours. Yet you follow him.

You're not stupid; you know what he wants. You want it, too.

Dark man is already in the limo, and this close you can see his eyes, too; they glitter with heat, with sharpness, and you draw back, a little afraid of him. He could hurt – not you, necessarily, but he looks like pain, like suffering. Dancing man sits down and the door closes. You curl your fingers around the edge of the seat when the car moves.

"Suck him," is the first thing dancing man says to you, and nods his head toward dark man. You look up, startled, more because he spoke than what he said. "Now," he adds softly, and licks his lips. You nod once, feel the odd vibrations through the floor of the car when your knees hit it.

Dark man has his pants open, fingers stroking lightly over swollen, hard flesh, and his eyes slash over you when you scoot in closer. He closes his eyes as you lean in, and the rush of breath he makes when you take him in your mouth sounds almost like a sob.

He's hot and throbbing against your tongue, and his fingers are slices of heat against your skin when he touches your face before gripping your hair. His thrusts burn your throat, your mouth, and you gag once before you get it under control. Heat slides down your spine when you taste him, small drops of bitterness leaking into your mouth. He sobs again when he comes, thick and hot, and salty like tears, and you don't have to look to know his eyes are open and he's staring at the man sitting quietly on the seat behind you.

~~~~~~~

"Undress," is the next thing dancing man says to you, one minute after you step into a large, luxurious hotel room. It's very dim; the only light comes from a small lamp in the other room of the suite. Dark man pushes the door closed behind the three of you, and the sound of the lock makes your heart hurt.

He opens the drapes while you're undoing your blouse, fingers shaking enough it's hard to make them work around the buttons. Dancing man hisses softly when you drop the clothing, pulls you close and kisses you, his hands sliding around over your skin. You feel warmth everywhere he touches you, goosebumps prickling up and sending shivers marching up and down your body. His mouth is hot and wet against yours, tasting, tongue licking slowly over every surface before he pulls away. He kisses your neck, licks a trail from your jaw down to the base of your throat, hands coming up to cup your breasts. Your nipples throb, pulling into tight buds, and when he strokes one you moan softly, arching into the touch.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says softly, kissing you once more as he moves away. You nod and swallow roughly around the words stuck in your throat. He leads you through the door and into the bedroom; dark man has the drapes open in here, too. Night glitters beyond the windowpanes, and the lights from up here make it seem as if the world is upside down, with the stars shining near the ground.

Dark man's already sitting on the bed, eyes sparkling. No, not sparkling. That's a…happy word. There's no happiness here. Just want. Need. Hunger. Yearning. Depths of those you'd never realized could exist.

"Here," he says softly, and you blink, surprised. His voice is so light, so beautiful. He touches you hesitantly as you lie down, fingers skating over your mouth, tracing the seam between your lips. He bites his lip when you kiss his finger and you wonder if he can feel dancing man's mouth there.

Warmth touches your throat, your breasts, and dark man draws back, pulling into himself at the head of the bed. Dancing man smiles as he strokes you, but it's not at you, not for you, and the heat in your belly throbs in protest when the ache in your chest increases, vying for dominance. You watch him roll the condom over his erection; he's lost, staring through you.

It's been a long time since you had sex and your body shudders with remembered pleasure when he pushes your legs open, when he touches you gently, fingers stroking over slick, hot skin. When he sinks into you your breath catches in your throat and the ache in your chest blossoms into pain, a beautiful, swirling pain that pulsates behind your eyelids in flickers of red and orange and yellow, pricked by dots of black. You feel it all through your body, a sweet, hot throb of pleasure and pain and when you twist your head back, longing and need and—love. Those aren't yours, but you feel them, taste them, taste salt when dancing man nuzzles at your mouth, not kissing, just hovering there.

He doesn't look at you as the thrusts become shorter, harder, choppy with intensity. You don't have to twist your head to know who he's looking at. To know what he wants. You hook your legs around his and rock upward to meet his thrusts, close your eyes so you can hold the look in his eyes inside you. He shifts then, and changes angles, and sparks of white shower down on you, through you, explode within you as orgasm rips through you. He groans and thrusts again, again, again, and you feel the word he whispers against your neck—

"Chris."

~fin~

 


End file.
